The piece below originally appeared in the January 2011 issue of Metro magazine, billed rather provocatively on the cover as "What's wrong with NZ novels?"

I'm grateful for the softening effect of that question mark: "A few diagnostic gestures towards a working theory of some current plot trends in the New Zealand literary novel" would have been more accurate, but probably wouldn't have helped sell copies of the magazine.

The article got a lot of feedback; most of it positive, and pretty much all of it off the record (both of which surprised me). One correspondent summed up the general response thus: readers thought I was basically right, except for one thing -- and that "one thing" was completely different for each individual.

In fact, it wasn't right I was after, so much as useful: I distrust grand unified theories, but am intrigued and beguiled by patterns, and by exceptions. It's always easier to identify patterns in the past, once the dust has cleared and the canon stands outlined against the sky, but I wanted to at least try to draw some literary isobars on the map of here and now.

Re-reading the article now, what strikes me (underneath the gleeful hyperbole) is a pretty transparent tug-of-love between exasperated critic and soppy literary fan-girl. I didn't particularly want to be right about this impression I was gathering. But I didn't want to be alone with it, either.

So let's make it more useful, more nuanced. Tell me your "one thing" -- or, even better, your more-than-one thing -- that I'm wrong about. What have you dozed off over lately, despite yourself? What's keeping you awake? Does the changing context of reading make you crave less sensation, or more? Is this just a phase we're all going through, readers and writers alike? Tell me, do. I'm all ears.

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Once More With Feeling

Jolisa Gracewood has had enough of the "new sensationalism" in New Zealand fiction.

At bedtime, there’s no sweeter soporific than a beloved paperback. But too often, lately, I’ve sat down in broad daylight to read something new and promising, only to startle awake some time later with the book lying across my nose like a chloroform-soaked hankie. It took me a while to figure out what was going on, and longer to admit it: I wasn’t tired. I was bored.

This was bothersome. Firstly, because so many of these narcoleptic volumes were by New Zealanders. Given that it is theoretically possible to read all the New Zealand fiction released in a given year, it feels rude not to at least try. These are our stories. And I don’t want to just lie back and think of the South Island, I want to love these books. All of them.

Secondly, and paradoxically: the novels that were testing my stamina were the very ones clamouring for my attention. Full of thrilling atmosphere and lurid incident, all vaudeville and freak show, they seemed explicitly designed to keep me up all night. So why was I nodding off by lunchtime?

A few off-the-record conversations reassured me I wasn’t alone. (Also, that we all felt a bit stink about it, so if you’re a publisher or author breathing into a paper bag at this point, give thanks for the enduring power of the national brand.) Then I stumbled across a pithy quote, from 19th-century American orator Wendell Phillips, that gave me some hope: “Boredom is, after all, a form of criticism.”

All right: perhaps my resistance to this hectic prose was not a failure, but a hint. Witi Ihimaera’s The Trowenna Sea helped set my compass. Frankly, the borrowings were the least of its issues. This was a novel I was excited about reading, based on a powerful, heartbreaking local story that Ihimaera had boldly expanded across a stage the size of the British Empire.

The result was, alas, a sentimental hodgepodge. A heavily foreshadowed romance never eventuated, while fascinating historical events came festooned with needless grotesquery. I’m still trying to erase from memory the deeply peculiar death scene of the poor hunchbacked Scotsman.

A few months earlier, I had read Gillian Ranstead’s Girlie. Like Ihimaera’s novel, it promised to interrogate the parallels between dispossessed Highlanders and Maori. In practice, it buried its considerable light under a bushel of such unremitting misery and disaster — visited particularly upon children — that I struggled to finish it. Not for the first time I wondered why, in our multigenerational stories of settler families, there’s never anything nice in the woodshed.

Meanwhile, other writers were raiding the colonial cabinet of curiosities. Which is, it must be said, a great place to find material, but there’s a fine line between rewriting and recycling. Quinine, Kelly Ana Morey’s foray into the German colonial adventure in Papua New Guinea (see review, page 102), might almost be a satire of the frontier romance, but left me
unsure whether to laugh or sigh.

The indigenous people so invisible in Quinine were at least present in Rachael King’s lush but troubling South American adventure The Sound of Butterflies and Lloyd Jones’ Mister Pip, but (Matilda aside) mainly as voiceless victims and/ or perpetrators of capricious violence. Oddly, none of this gruesome slaughter affected me as much as the matter-of-fact death by hanging in Maurice Shadbolt’s Season of the Jew.

And it wasn’t only the novels set long ago and far away: even authors tackling the way we live now went a bit Hudson and Halls, over-egging their puddings and sometimes over-saucing them too. Jones’ ambitious Hand Me Down World, which UK reviewers generally loved, ranged widely but struck me as implausible at almost every turn (except for the bit about sleeping in the railway station: I could have read a whole novel about that).

Eleanor Catton’s much-lauded The Rehearsal is a three-ring circus fizzing with genius. Still, more than one reader told me they got through it only by skipping an entire thread. I fantasised about slicing it into three perfectly stunning books: a drama school exposé, a girls’ school story, and a dark lesbian romance for those who like their Muriels sparky. Thrice the readership, thrice the profit.

And when Emily Perkins wove a ghost story and a fallen woman and an orphaned infant into Novel About My Wife, her deliciously dark portrait of property speculation and procreation in contemporary London, I couldn’t help wondering if it would have worked just as well if it were Novel About My House. I read it in one sitting, and was never bored — but I might have re-read it a few times already had it been a slightly less hyperbolic novel of manners.

Obviously, I’m tugging at a single thread here, just part of the wider fabric of our literary landscape. If a dedicated literary locavore tires of an overly fruity diet, there are perfectly good alternatives: the thrills of genre fiction; the cooler-headed chroniclers of modern mores, like Paula Morris, Chad Taylor, Charlotte Grimshaw; or new classics from the old guard, models of narrative decorum and wit.

But the surfeit of incident in current novels, and my own stubborn indifference to it, set me thinking about the “sensation novels” of the 1860s and 70s. These racy potboilers, full of intrigue — murders, kidnappings, blackmail, bigamy, stolen inheritances, double identities, orphans — were devoured all over the Empire, including our rural hinterland, as recounted in Lydia Wevers’ Reading on the Farm (full disclosure: I edited the manuscript).

For colonial readers, Wevers argues, such colourful fare was not just escapist, but often reflective of the world they lived in. It was also disposable: very little of it survives in the canon.

This “new sensationalism”, though: will it last? And where is it coming from? It’s not exactly what critic James Wood waspishly called “hysterical realism”, the sprawling, busy novels into which Zadie Smith and other writers tried to cram the vast panorama of modern life. (Wouldn’t you love to see a New Zealander have a go at that, though? Debra Daley’s millennial Cruel World comes close, but languishes unpublished.)

Ours feels more like drama for its own sake. But is it a reaction against the old laconicism, or just a new form of it: so much sensation, so little feeling? I wonder if these pyrotechnical plots spring from the same source as my readerly impatience. You know, ars longa, vita increasingly brevis: reading as a zero-sum game. Squeezed off the shelf by dragon tattoos and Leonardo codes, aware that readers’ attentions are finite (but infinitely catered for), are our authors just throwing everything they’ve got at us and hoping some of it sticks?

The novel is in crisis, as usual, although our writers have never been better trained or had more opportunities to promote their wares. Even as the publishing world hunkers down behind cookbooks and sporting biographies, the advent of e-books opens up a world of new fiction readers. The internet could be to our literary exports what refrigerated shipping was to our mutton trade. It’s a great time to be bored with New Zealand literature: anything could happen and it could be right now.

What to do in the meantime? The Atlantic Monthly’s critic B.R. Myers recently suggested avoiding new fiction altogether “unless it promises to be as good as the classics we thereby leave unread”. That’s bonkers, but he’s onto something: let’s compare what we’re buying off the shelves because we think we have to, with what we’re taking back down off the shelves because we want to.

I asked my online circle what New Zealand novels they’d re-read lately. The twitterati responded with a number of classics from the usual suspects (mine were Patricia Grace and Robin Hyde), with a surprisingly strong vote for Ngaio Marsh. One wit nominated The Hobbit. But most popular were young-adult novels, especially by Margaret Mahy, Maurice Gee and Kate de Goldi. Why? Nostalgia, yes — but also, I suspect, a joyful re-engagement with stories about recognisable, complicated people on the cusp of brave action.

That’s the kind of sensation I’m after: I read novels in order to feel something, but I want to spend time with characters who do something, rather than relentlessly suffer things done to them. This isn’t a retro manifesto. I adore technical bravado and stylistic risk, but without a beating, plausible human heart, they’re a largely mechanical exercise. And atmospheric plot machinations alone won’t keep this reader coming back for more.

All the special effects are wasted if we lose sight of what’s especially affecting. I want to care for, fear for, cheer for the people on the page as they stumble into their ordinary, shining, all-too-finite futures — all of us with eyes wide open.

217 responses to this post

Reading this (while I should have been working on yet another paper) set me into a mild panic. I realised I haven't read any fiction, let alone a New Zealand novel, for months or possibly years. My bedside and deskside reading are piled with books (and reports, and peer reviewed articles), all non-fiction. Among them two great NZ works, however: WB Sutch's Quest for security in NZ, recently returned by Giovanni, and Jen Birch's fascinating autobiography, Congratulations! It's Asperger Syndrome. Then I remembered that a couple of summers ago I did allow myself to read Kate de Goldi's The 10 pm question, which is not just for young adults, and it was wonderful and vivid and reminded me I could still feel anxious and troubled by a brave, imaginary kid.

From what I recall Maurice Gee, Margaret Mahy and Patricia Grace are usually pretty reliable for memorable fiction to get lost in, but the last Gee I read was the one set on Tinakori Hill, which I live on, and I can't name a recent book from any of these writers (or perhaps they have quietly retired?) And for a one-time avid reader of new NZ fiction, I haven't read, and can't even picture, any of those you mention.

While I still havent read “Guardian of the Dead” I am so sad that ANZ fiction is now very flat. It’s as though there has been a direction from overseas, “This way of writing will get your work right up there”

as on the net-

but the writers havent actually writen a story that will entrance us here because all the crap I HAVE read, is mucilagenously – anywhere-

And I too. I honestly can't remember reading any New Zealand long-form fiction since high school a decade ago. Poetry, in great measure, and short stories in collection.

I made a thing of only reading fiction that had had glowing recommendations from people I knew in person, or whose judgement I trusted greatly. The quality improved, but the quantity diminished. I'm only recently arrived back in the country, and long stopped reading the Listener, so its books pages are gone to me. Does the Metro have review pages that illuminate, dissect and inspire?

Since September I've found it hard to hold a plot or complex cast of characters in my brain and consequently I'm finding it hard to engage with novels and each one takes ages for me to plough through. I think I'm going to have to resort to rereading comfortable and familiar kids/young adults books for a bit.

I used to read a lot of NZ writing as part of my job. Short stories, non-fiction books and fiction. "One of Ben's" by Maurice Shadbolt would have been one of the last NZ books I read and was immersed in - the story of the Shadbolt boys, convicted of petty offenses and transported - it was moving and horrifying and very well written. Pat Grace is one of my favourites. Maurice Gee too. Favourite short story writer - Owen Marshall. I like Charlotte Grimshaw's writing, and her dad's.

Over the years, I would be sent new publications to see if they'd be good audio books. For the most part, they failed to engage me. They were a chore to read. I imagined it was because I was a bit jaded. Maybe though, in the light of what you say, Jolisa, I was a bit hard on myself. There were a couple which I thought were quite good, but for the life of me, at this point in time on a Saturday night after a couple of wines, I can't remember what their titles were, or who wrote them.

I think you can expand your theory to the thesis of "What's wrong with novels?" I'm 2/3rds of the way through The Finkler Question and have been for 3 months. I haven't been helped in my quest when I asked my mother-in-law who has finished it - "Does anything happen?" to be told "No, not really"

I'll admit that I bought a book of 100 NZ short stories last year in an effort to read more NZ authors. I'm about halfway through (and have been for a while!).

I’m finding it hard to engage with novels and each one takes ages for me to plough through

This. I have misplaced my ability (and desire?) to read anything too complex at present. All last year (when I did Pols Hons) I only really read (& re-read) Harry Potter, Terry Pratchett & Star Wars. Does this make me a bad person? I used to love reading new books, now its a chore.

Since September I've found it hard to hold a plot or complex cast of characters in my brain and consequently I'm finding it hard to engage with novels

There was a point a couple of weeks after the Feb earthquake where I suddenly thought, "Wait a minute, this book I'm reading, and have been quite enjoying, is utter bilge." My brain needed to mend. But since then I've largely been re-reading old favourites - partly due to the total lack of libraries.

But one of the things I brought back from Mum's just before that was the copy of Barbara Else's The Warrior Queen that I gave her years ago, and we both loved. Not much happens in that either, but it's so delightfully, engagingly written. It's a warm book, despite its subject matter.

I will say, I loved The Sound of Butterflies. It was atmospheric in a way that reminded me of Tanith Lee, and which I really enjoy. Though not right now.

All last year (when I did Pols Hons) I only really read (& re-read) Harry Potter, Terry Pratchett & Star Wars. Does this make me a bad person? I used to love reading new books, now its a chore.

Nah. I make a policy of only purchasing books I know I'm going to re-read a lot.If you're hellishly busy and just want to be entertained and/or distrated, there's nothing wrong with reaching for something you know will do the job. Especially if you know what sort of mood it's going to put you in.

But most popular were young-adult novels, especially by Margaret Mahy, Maurice Gee and Kate de Goldi. Why? Nostalgia, yes — but also, I suspect, a joyful re-engagement with stories about recognisable, complicated people on the cusp of brave action.

Also, for me, at least, because YA NZ fiction is the only reliable way to get NZ-based SFF. There are NZ authors who write SFF, but that's not the same thing. If you want aliens in Auckland or enchantments in Christchurch, YA books are the way to go.

Personally I've enjoyed, in one way or another, every New Zealand book read in the past year. This includes completing the Shadbolt New Zealand Wars trilogy, Kate De Goldi, Karen Healey and even LLoyd Jones latest. While I can see how the themes and narrative got a bit 'what I did and saw in Berlin', it held together as well as any northern hemisphere novel read during the same period.

I am so sad that ANZ fiction is now very flat.

Since Islander increased the sphere to Australia , I would also say the Australian novels read in the same period have been enjoyable reads too. Winton's Breath seems as pertinent to New Zealand's surfing, itinerant culture as it does to far north-western Australia. For indigenous resonance Adrian Hyland's Gunshot Road (thanks Bookiemonstor) was just bloody fantastic, IMhO.

Thinking why we might feel a bit nonplussed by NZ fiction, it strikes me it could be a factor of expectation. This is a small place, with meagre history and a penchant, or propensity, to box above our weight. When I pick up a New Zealand novel I have to temper my expectation it will sing to me like a morning chorus of Tui and Kokako.

Of course we shouldn't expect less of fiction written in New Zealand, and I'm not at all suggesting we give the books or Authors a pass because we're a bit small and a bit sensitive, but should we expect more?

I'm 2/3rds of the way through The Finkler Question and have been for 3 months.

I think when Islander uses "ANZ", she is referring to "Aotearoa New Zealand".

Oh well. Still enjoyed them though. Seems the great Australian Novel could fall foul of the same sentiments as expressed here about New Zealand. Or is the general consensus that they write better? (ducks)

Because I have such a dire memory, I've had to resort to the Library "My Reading History" function to see what, if any, NZ novels I've read in the last 5 years. Paul Shannon's Davey Darling, which I loved, loved, loved. And a bit further back, about 4 years ago, I discovered Deborah Challinor. And that appears to be it for NZ fiction, lately. Because my mum buys every new book ever published - including all the NZ ones that get goodish reviews - I have them at my fingertips. But haven't accessed her collection for a number of years. I have read alot of NZ fiction writers' works but not for some time - and it took talking to you to realise it. Something else to think about. Boo.

I think the last NZ novel I read was Master Pip, partly because of all the fanfare. I sort of enjoyed bits of it, but it left me underwhelmed. But then so much literary fiction does these days. The last fantastic absorbing book I read that I couldn't put down was Wolf Hall, and that is going back a bit now. I've got into the habit of reading fiction I don't have to think about, as a comfort thing, a bit like a nice comfy pair of jammies, a hot chocolate and a few biscuits. That's not to say I haven't read things that are supposed to be good: I so, so, so wanted to LOVE The Children's Book (Byatt) but didn't ever really feel that bothered - I live in the borough of Waltham Forest, for goodness sake, the William Morris museum is just up the road, the whole thing should have been sparking off recognition, I don't know, something. But I just couldn't be faffed with it. I visited the library today and brought home some appalling US mumsy novel thing full of fluff, another English complete chicklit thing, some new SF novel (actually probably not new, just new to me) and another one which I can't remember just now. This is all to interrupt my attempt to read the 2nd dragon tattoo book, which I want to read to find out what happens, but just gets me so irritated by the quality of the translation, or something - you see? I just can't be bothered being constructively critical. I don't want to read worthy books, I just want a nice wee story to keep me entertained - I just wish that some of the fantastically written and critically acclaimed books could deliver that as well.

I honestly don't think it is an attention span thing. And it's not pure nostalgia - although I make recommendations of my old favourites to friends with children of the appropriate ages, I'm not driven to re-read them all. I may make an exception for the Chrestomanci series by Diana Wynne Jones though.

I'm tired of things being clever clever - I just want to be blown away by pure talent. I'll have to keep reading to find that I suppose?

I've read only a handful of NZ writers over the last few years, and at least half of those were young adult novels (reading my daughters' books). I thought that The 10pm Question by Kate de Goldi was excellent. The story was a lovely slow reveal, little bit adding to little bit, until I became aware of what was going on. There is a resolution, but not a trite one, at all. I've also enjoyed various books by Margaret Mahy, and more recently, on my elder daughter's recommendation, The Transformation of Minna Hargreaves by Fleur Beale. A great coming of age story. I also enjoyed her Juno of Taris, to which there is apparently a sequel (this news has Ms Twelve squealing with delight).

I think this taps into what Jolisa said, that there's something joyful about young adult fiction. Especially young adult fiction without a vampire in sight.

I'm completely in agreement with you, Tamsin. I do tend to steer away from clever or "worthy" fiction. As a matter of fact, at the moment I have Martin Amis' newest - The Pregnant Widow - sitting by my bed and I am avoiding it completely. I'll give it a go, I'm just not sure why I requested it from the library.

Oh, phew. Thanks Philip. That was my natural inclination. I'm just waiting till the library opens at lunchtime to collect the latest couple of Armistead Maupin books and a couple of memoirs. Will return it forthwith!